


Inevitable

by SailorStarDust1



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst, Experimental Style, Freeform, Gen, Vague BBKaz but not the point (for once), mgsv spoilers, post-MGS4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8806039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorStarDust1/pseuds/SailorStarDust1
Summary: I don't even know. Abrupt inspiration after Midnight made me write out the long-held random ideas floating in my head. (Sleep-induced ramblings maybe an interesting fic make?)





	

"Was it really just another job to you?" Voice even, refusal to display any hint of emotion. A scratch to his frankly unkempt, graying yet thin, beard.

"So many years apart, and that's how you greet me?" Despite his words, Ocelot couldn't help but smirk, blowing some of that long—long-graying, he felt—hair out of his face. His part to play as Liquid now over, rest...Rest along that man's side was finally his.

Bittersweet reward.

* * *

That acceptance in those dull blue eyes, blood dripping in between... After eerily calm discussion amidst harsh Alaskan winters—just another February day—about _that man_ not so dead and buried, some six years prior. Ocelot wouldn't forget the brief flicker of fear and curiosity in those now dead eyes he shut with...tenderness.

He had wondered before the bullet, too, if this was just another job. Ocelot simply chuckled, impatience brewing under the surface. He next inquired about the safety of his huskies out back—Something Ocelot honestly reassured Miller, lest either forget DD.

* * *

Diamond Dogs, rather Outer Heaven. The painful loss, already ten years ago, of Venom Snake and some of the best men and women at the hands of _that_ son? Best left unsaid. Miller to this day didn't know which heartache stung worse, as Campbell was concerned about the Hell Master's outright refusal to offer such crucial radio support to David.

A certain constrictor naturally slithered far away from FOXHOUND, in the midst of confusion after the radio frequencies to assist Solid Snake had switched to V, no one the wiser.

Except Kaz. Heart nearly squeezed out of his chest, splattered on his wooden office floors in ugly, smeared blood, fighting off his stomach's queasiness as Campbell burst in with radio in hand, David's emotionally drained voice announcing that everything had ended.

A mere four years later while offering support in L.A.—a teenage Catherine fast asleep as she goodnaturedly waited for Santa's morning arrival—his vomiting into the nearest trashcan seemingly without end.

The harsh reality had hit. The dying screams of that man set albaze forever burned within his mind. Even worse, the knowledge that somewhere in that twisted brain amidst both crumbling military empires, Snake was dying as he wanted to.

By David's hand, student to mentor; the cycle unwavering.

Whose loss hurt more, he wasn't certain. When...

The man he _could_ truly respect, worthy of Big Boss's title, stubborn to the point where one who'd try spotting the personality differences easily fooled by the phantom alongside the genuine article, always siding with that man.

Loyalty.

Curses under his breath amongst limping to the heliport—V's quick stride behind him, false reassurances far too late—Miller left with no option but to leave far away, back to America. His place at Diamond Dogs no more, Outer Heaven nothing but a dead dream as the brutal years dragged on.

Pushing himself to regain lost strength. Looking into prosthetic limbs. No coincidence that David eventually joined FOXHOUND under Big Boss's watchful eye, an eye Hell Master would naturally avoid whenever contact was made. His tired sighs ignored as Kaz walked out of the room, head held high, regarding his new limbs.

Fuck Big Boss. To hell with him.

Feeling sadness for him? Ridiculous. Not after the years of abuse, "good old days" of MSF dead and buried at the bottom of the Caribbean. Maybe the good old days were nothing but a lie, forced camaraderie—resentfully blooming into something far more intimate as barely three years whizzed by—leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Radio long cut off as Campbell began elaborating to Solid the truth about his heritage before Campbell, Holly, and Charlie alike wondered where David had up and vanished to; Miller flipping his ponytail away as a new heartache, lingering sadness for his protégé, filled his being. Sadness and pity equal for the man's life that David had, unaware,

snuffed

Thoughts of V, warmth and frustration equivalent, caused a brand new wave of nausea. Lurching foward, clenched, sweaty, palms.

* * *

An even worse fear flickered in Miller's eyes, those red gloved hands calmly pocketing his aviators in a breast pocket, revolver firmly pressed against one damp forehead.

Not seeing either of those men one last time, in death.

_Make it simple to last your whole life long_ ringing against his ears drifting from the living room, shitty old radio he never got around to replacing, the last sounds amidst a sudden

S i n g l e

* * *

"Ask him yourself. You two have plenty of catching up to do." A tired man, his role done. Evident. No jealousy nor bitterness within his voice.

The drifting white void the three—three?—found themselves in, Big Boss uneasily hyper alert, breath coming out as ragged gasps immediately at the familiar touch, prosthetic hand clamped against his shoulder from behind.

"Everyone's here. Zero. Eva. _Her_. Ahab." A beat to reinforce, "Everyone."

"...." He couldn't respond, shame of past deeds, so much blood on his hands, still heavily weighing.

What to say?

"How about a 'hello'? Jackass." Answering unasked questions, Hell Master per usual not missing a beat.

Kaz spun him around, late fifty year old's gaze equally tired as the other men in the pure white room they found themselves in.

"I'm sorry."

The blonde snorted, lightly slapping John's cheek in response. Why light...? Tenderness wasn't deserved.

Ocelot stood with arms crossed in silence. Head bowed. His own thoughts turning to _her_ , a fifty year reunion in the making. Certainly his own numerous sins not forgiven so easily. A rather old pair of glasses, single cracked lens covered in blood, lay near Ocelot's spurs. Had they somehow sensed one another's presence?

Forgiveness, as such for John, wasn't expected. Sure as hell not a requirement.

"Nowhere else to turn, Snake."

Feebly offering his trembling(?) hand to Kazuhira, shock evident across his face as the younger man accepted. Nothing terribly intimate as fingers interlaced; merely holding hands was enough.

John's dark circles under his good eye ignored, he opened his mouth, beginning to speak.

A start.


End file.
